


Predator

by LadySlytherin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 14:51:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySlytherin/pseuds/LadySlytherin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lysander knows, logically, that it's wrong. But he doesn't care. All the matters is that he loves Lorcan; he always has and he always will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Predator

**Author's Note:**

> Written for daisychain_drab Round 12. A big thanks to Kitty for being awesome enough to read this over for me and squee in the right places; made me feel good about posting. And another thanks to all the lovely ladies who read it over for me before I posted it; I can't thank you girls enough! And a giant thanks to queenie_mab for warring with me while I knocked this out. Otherwise I might have put it off to the very last minute and it might have never gotten finished.

You have to understand...I _know_ how wrong it is. I’ve _always_ known. We both have. But that’s not the point; not at all. It’s not even _touching_ the point. The point...well. The point falls somewhere between the taste of his tongue and the curve of his lips and the way he moves when he’s beneath me; when I’m so deep inside of him that there is neither _Lorcan_ nor _Lysander_ , only _us_. The point lies in the sound of his voice and the curve of his spine and the way his eyebrow arches when he’s feeling just a little bit wicked. The point, you see, is that I love him.

 

I can’t remember the first time I thought of Lorcan in an unbrotherly way. I’m not sure I _ever_ loved him as a brother; the way I ought to have. I remember being four years old, playing in the garden, surrounded by the flowers and vines and the smell of loam and lush green growing things. The sun made our hair lighter, nearly white - courtesy of Mum - and it made our skin gleam golden- courtesy of Dad - so that we looked like we were made of sunshine all on our own. Mum would laugh and tickle us and call us children of Apollo; made of music and light.

 

And as she and Dad tended the flowers, Lorcan and I went rushing along garden paths, laughing and playing as all children do. But then we tumbled onto the grass, the sun pounding down on us and the light breeze teasing our hair, and I looked at my twin, thinking to myself, _‘Lorcan is my world. I will be with him forever, no matter what.’_  And I didn’t mean it in a familial way; not even way back then.

 

And now...well, at sixteen, things are _hardly_  so innocent anymore. I’d feel guilty if it weren’t for the fact that he’s my soulmate. The other half of me. All of the parts and pieces of me, added to all of the parts and pieces of him, make a single person. One whole, entire, complete person. And the rest of the time, we’re less; we’re halved; we’re broken and scattered and lacking. So I’d feel guilty, I think, except for that. Because how can I feel bad about wanting to be whole?

 

Lorcan has doubts. I can see it on his face at times; hear it in the way he looks at me. His eyes say it so loudly he might as well be screaming. He worries. What would Mum and Dad say; what would our friends say; who could _ever_ understand...

 

But that’s okay. I’m confident enough for the both of us.

 

And now we’re in the sunshine again, and all alone. Mum and Dad have gone away - some jaunt to search for something or another, like always - and Lorcan and I are old enough to stay at home. Summer breaks are best when Mum and Dad are busy, if only because it’s _so_ impossible to keep my hands off of him. He’s just so bloody beautiful...

 

Which is impossibly narcissistic of me, but I don’t care.

 

He’s across the meadow from me just now; he’s spinning and soaking up the sunlight and the breeze and the moment. His lips are curved, and I know I can smile just that way if I wanted to though somehow I never manage to look quite so...innocent. And now he’s turned towards me and is holding out his hand, calling me over to him. No words needed; but then, they so rarely are.

 

I stand and move closer and I can feel his eyes on me; watching me. If we’re standing still, you can’t tell us apart. No one can, aside from Mum. She knows just by looking at our eyes, which I know is all my fault. I have _knowing_ in my gaze - a sharpy, edgy gleam to the golden  color - that gives me away. So she knows, with a look. But everyone else is baffled, until we move; until _I_ move.

 

When we were little - seven or eight, I suppose - we went to South America. There, in the jungle, we played with children of a rainforest tribe. Lorcan didn’t like it; didn’t like the heat or the dense green or how vibrant everything was, but I _thrived._ And as I ran wild, I learned to move as the children did - with the graceful, predatory fluidity of a jungle cat. And it’s not something I’ve outgrown. So when we move, it’s easy to tell Lorcan and I apart. Because I’m a predator. And Lorcan? Well...he’s my prey.

 

I can see, as I get closer, the way his breathing deepens and his pupils dilate at my approach. He called me over - beckoned me near - but he can’t stop his response to that nearness. Fear is instinctive, after all. Lorcan is all of the light, the joy, the sweetness, of us. He is the kindness and the generosity and the patience. He is the gentleness and the devotion.

 

I am need and want and longing. I am the one who is impulse and drive and desperation. So I am the one who tangles a hand in his hair and jerks him in for a kiss - a fierce, desperate claiming of his lips; me devouring him - in the peaceful innocence of the meadow. When I drag him to the ground, flattening the long grass and wildflowers beneath us, Lorcan is trembling and glassy-eyed, but he doesn’t push me away from him. He would _never_ push me away.

 

“Ly...” He murmurs, and the worry and uncertainty laces his voice even as he tips his head to grant me access to his throat. “We shouldn’t...”

 

“Shhh...” I soothe him, my hands slipping under the hem of his tee-shirt. My tongue dances along the edge of his jaw while my fingers seek the fastenings of his shorts. “Tell me that you love me, Lorcan. Tell me that you’re mine.”

 

Lorcan gasps beneath me, his hips stuttering and his full lips moving soundlessly for a moment. Those lovely eyes, just like my own except for the innocence, are wide and dazed as he manages breathlessly. “I love you, Ly. I’m yours. Only yours.”

 

He’s so good; so obedient. He never denies me this; he never will. My tongue traces the curve of his ear as I undo the fastenings of my own jeans, then I whisper. “Show me that you love me, Lorcan. Prove to me that you’re really mine.”

 

And his hands are between us as well, shoving his shorts down, and then he’s kicking them off and his legs are around my waist and finally - _finally_ \- we’re one person again. My lips move over Lorcan’s cheek as my hips move steadily faster, my tongue darting out to lick the salt from his skin.

 

I hate how brief this is; how quickly we’ll be separated again. I hate having half of myself residing elsewhere, so far away even when he’s right beside me. But these moments - when his heart beats in rhythm with mine and we breathe together and our bodies are locked together - are the best. These moments make the time we spend separated bearable. These moments are what I live for; the thing I crave above all else.

 

When we’re both spent, I roll to the side and tug Lorcan into my arms, nuzzling his hair. And I savor the way he trembles against me, the soft hiccup to his breathing as he sobs, because it’s the part of us that’s him. The sadness and remorse; the regret. It passes; it always passes. And if one of us has to feel those things - be burdened by them - I’m sorry it must be him. I hate that he suffers, in any way. But this unshared feeling - the fact that he is guilty, and I am simply satisfied - just proves what I know is true.

 

We are two halves - two sets of pieces - that make a whole.

 

Lorcan is good and innocent and pure; he got all the morality.

 

And me? Well, it’s like I said.

 

I’m not.

 

**_~ The End ~_ **


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